


Don't You Dare (Hurt Him)

by chasingshadows, Kedreeva



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV), superwolf - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, Destiel - Freeform, Human!Castiel - Freeform, M/M, Nephilim, Superwolf, sterek, tw: panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:56:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingshadows/pseuds/chasingshadows, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hunts down a werewolf in Beacon hills but it doesn’t go as he plans...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't You Dare (Hurt Him)

**Author's Note:**

> This was spawned off a round-robin Tumblr fic (original launch can be found [here](http://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/49135367461) and you are welcome to take off in another direction if you so desire!) begun from artwork by the lovely [Banryeo](http://banryeo.tumblr.com/). The original artwork can be found [here](http://banryeo.tumblr.com/post/49018435788) and there is a follow-up illustration [here](http://banryeo.tumblr.com/post/51081041956).
> 
> We also want to warn that there is a fairly graphic depiction of a panic attack in the latter half of the story, so please be careful if this will bother you!
> 
> Thanks for letting us take off with this, Banryeo! We really enjoyed writing it out :)

 

* * *

 

 

            The back of Dean’s head cracked against the tree trunk as Derek slammed him into it with a deep growl. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” he snapped, fingers wrapped tight around the wrist of the hand that held the glinting, white-handled gun. His other arm choked off Dean’s air supply, unforgiving.

            “Please don’t hurt him!” Stiles pleaded with the other hunter from where he knelt on the ground, one arm flailing out to help him scramble to his feet in the wake of Dean’s attack. The first hunter had shoved him down hard enough that Stiles knew he thought he was a wolf as well. “It’s not what you think!”

            “I think we found a pair of murderous werewolves,” Dean shot, voice strained from the way Derek’s forearm pressed into his throat despite Dean’s finger’s scrabbling at the fabric of his shirt. Derek snarled and gave a good shove to shut him up, but he remained human.

            “No, Dean,” Castiel said calmly, staring blandly at Stiles now that he was standing again. “This one is human.”

            Stiles had no idea how the guy could tell, not when Derek hadn’t even transformed. It might have been that his injuries were not healing, but he doubted it. There were myriad tiny stones imbedded in his skin to prevent healing, had he been a werewolf. A hunter would know that, should know that, but not that Stiles was only human, not just by looking at him. Red flags went up in Stiles’ mind.

            “Yeah, human,” Stiles repeated, rubbing grit from his skinned palms by smoothing them up his jeans. He winced, then threw a glance over his shoulder at where Derek had Dean pinned to a tree. “You thought…?”

            “Please release my friend,” Castiel ordered softly, instead of answering. Something within Stiles coiled tight in fear; there was no threat in the words, but he absolutely respected the _or I will make you_ undercurrent in the tone. Despite that he was not very intimidating in stature, Stiles had no doubts the man could and _would_ make Derek release the hunter if he had to.

            “Derek-“

            “Stiles,” Derek responded, without waiting for the inevitable command and without looking away from Dean. “He’s a _hunter_.”

            “Yeah, and he hasn’t hurt us,” Stiles pointed out tartly. “And he’s _human_.” He knew at least that one was, anyway.

            Derek bared dull, human teeth at Dean, but he eased his forearm away from Dean’s throat, let the guy’s toes touch the ground before he released him entirely. He backed away as Dean stumbled forward a step, getting his feet under him and bringing his gun up to bear on Derek. But he hesitated, because this was _weird_ , even for the litany of weird that was his life.

            “So…” Stiles shifted uncomfortably, unable to sit still, wishing he and Derek were not sandwiched between a pair of obviously deadly hunters. The fact that the man in the trench coat had not even drawn a weapon at all spoke volumes about how dangerous he must really be. “I’m Stiles. Human,” he reminded them both. “And that’s Derek. Less human. And you are?” Stiles asked, matching Castiel’s intense stare.

            “Hunters,” Dean said from behind him at the same time as Castiel said: “Castiel.”

            Stiles turned his gaze from Castiel to look at Dean, to assess the shared look between the hunters. “Castiel,” Stiles said, trying the strange name on his tongue, and he saw the curl of Dean’s lip. He guessed immediately that something was going on, something below the surface of the situation. “Your _friend_ seems pretty keen on killing my _friend_ , Castiel,” Stiles said slowly, stressing the words.

            There was a whole world of _more than friends_ between them all.

            “Yes,” Castiel agreed blandly. “He is a werewolf, and Dean is a hunter.”

            “Yeah, well, we got already got a town full of Argents,” Stiles informed them harshly. “You guys part of the family or something? In town for a visit?”

            “Argents?” Dean said sharply, gun lowering. “Here?”

            “Yeah,” Stiles confirmed, turning to face Dean again. He backed up so that he could keep an eye on both hunters, confused now. “You didn’t… know?”

            “We were unaware of other hunters in the area,” Castiel said smoothly.

            "Then how'd you find- I mean, what are you doing here?" Stiles asked, sharing an uncomfortable look with Derek. If hunters were going to start showing up at random, without even knowing the Argents already had this town covered, the pack was going to have a problem on their hands.

            "It's none of your damn business," Dean snapped, shooting Derek a glare that was heartily returned.

            "I think if you're trying to kill us, it's absolutely our business," Derek snarled back.

            "Only you, puppy," Dean goaded with a nasty smile.

            "Dean," Castiel reprimanded at the same time Stiles said "Derek" as a warning. Castiel glanced to Stiles, who gave him a weak shrug in return.

            "Look," Stiles said reasonably. "How about we take you guys to the Argents, and see if we can get this sorted?"

            "What are you, friends with them?" Dean demanded. A scoff roughed the back of Derek's throat at the suggestion. "They're letting you live, buddy. Something's going on."

            Stiles interrupted before it could go any further. "Yeah, something is," he agreed. "The Argents live by a code. I thought all hunters did. They only hunt stuff that hunts humans."

            Dean gave him a rather severe scowl. "And you're saying this thing-" he jabbed his gun in Derek's direction, earning him a growl, "doesn't hunt humans?"

            "Do I look hunted to you?" Stiles asked, finally exasperated. Dean's look said that no, Stiles did not, and so Stiles nodded. "Okay then. We'll take you to them. Come on, Derek."

            "Woah, woah, hold up there hotshot," Dean said, taking a step toward Stiles. Derek placed himself between them, and Dean turned his attention to Derek instead. "You're not both getting in that car so you can drive off. Not going to let you get away that easy."

            "Oh my god," Stiles groaned. "Fine, then you can come with me and-"

            "No," Castiel and Dean said together. Castiel shifted guiltily. "I cannot drive."

            "You can't- you're like forty, how can you not- It doesn't matter," Stiles said, waving his hand. "Whatever. Then you can come with me and Derek can go with him. I do _not_ want to have to tell my father about any of this, so I swear to God, he'd better get there in one piece."

            It was on the tip of Castiel's tongue to ask _which one_ , but Derek's next muttered words stopped them cold. "Yeah, because the sheriff needs one more supernatural problem in his town."

            Stiles caught the startled look exchanged between Dean and Castiel, the realization that lit both their eyes. All of his red flags stood at attention at once before either of them had even said a word about it. "As in Sheriff _Stilinski_?" Dean asked, in the tone of voice that said Murphy's Law wasn't even a surprise anymore. "You're Stilinski's kid?"

            "Maybe," Stiles answered, not sure he wanted to be his father's son if they were going to look at him like that. Headlights flared in the distance and Stiles remembered that they may have been somewhat out of the way, but they were still having a supernatural showdown on a public road. "Look, can we take this someplace less... open? We can talk about this at Allison's."

            No one seemed to appreciate his sense of self-preservation, but they loaded into their cars without comment.

 

* * *

 

            The ride was anything but comfortable for Stiles. Castiel sat very still and very rigid in the seat beside him, staring straight ahead with no attempt at conversation. Stiles hated it. It was awkward and eerie and this was supposed to be a _hunter_ but he couldn't shake the feeling that this guy wasn't quite _human_ , despite the opinion his partner seemed to hold of the supernatural. And Stiles was so busy thinking that he couldn't just ask Castiel if he was human that he didn't realize he was asking until he was halfway through the question.

            "-something _other_ than human. It's not like- I mean, I've just been around enough non-humans that I sort of can tell now, you know?" he finished lamely. "Like I can _feel_ it."

            Castiel was quiet for a moment, and then his gaze dropped from the road to his lap. "I haven't always been human," he finally admitted. Then he glanced over, as if he expected judgment.

            "Oh," Stiles said. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Denial, for one.

            The sidelong look Castiel shot him Stiles didn't like one bit. "But you're not entirely human either, are you-" The blare of a horn as Stiles hit his brakes mid-turn onto the main road didn't quite manage to cover the name.

            "How did you know that?" Stiles demanded. "How did you fucking know my name?"

            “I think it would be best if you were not operating a moving vehicle,” Cas said evenly. 

            The Jeep skidded violently to a halt on the shoulder and Stiles whipped to look at Castiel. "That's my _real name_."

            "Yes," Castiel agreed.

            "But how-"

            "If you'll allow it, I can show you how," Castiel offered quietly. He could see the Impala disappearing ahead of them, and knew that Dean would be worried when he noticed the Jeep was no longer following. He hoped the two would get along.

            Stiles swallowed thickly. "Um...

 

* * *

****

            Dean cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. He hated awkward car rides. “So how do you know the Argents?” he asked. Derek gave an angry, throaty noise that boarded on a growl and Dean saw his eyes flashing red when he glanced over. “Touchy subject. Okay.”

            They drove in silence for several minutes, Derek staring angrily out the window and Dean fidgeting anxiously, all of his instincts screaming at him, until he couldn’t take it. He reached forward to turn up the radio, but his hand was caught by Derek’s lightning fast reflexes, blunt fingernails digging into Dean’s wrist.

            “Woah, man, just turning up the tunes. No need to get your panties in a bunch.” Derek clenched his jaw and nodded once before releasing him.

            “They murdered my family in cold blood,” Derek announced suddenly. “How do you know them?”

            Dean’s eyes flashed with the knowledge that he had a very pissed off werewolf sitting next to him and the silver bullets were in the trunk.

            “Uhm, well, my dad hunted with one of ‘em when we were kids. I used to hang with his son. Almost scored with the kid sister last time I saw them.  Tight little ass and a spit-fire personality. Whew, she was smoking,” Dean remarked, hoping to lighten the mood. Given the death glare he was receiving, he got the impression it wasn’t working. 

            “Not worth it,” Derek grunted out. “Trust me.”

 

* * *

 

            Stiles drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, glancing back and forth between Castiel and the road they were no longer driving upon. Finally, Stiles turned in his seat to fully face the man in the trench coat occupying the seat normally reserved for werewolves, or strawberry-blonde brainiacs

            “What do you mean _show me_?” he asked, voice shaky. He swallowed around the pounding of his heart in his throat, loud enough that even he could hear. "When you say I'm not quite human…”

            “Nephilim.” The word fell from the man’s mouth quickly and sharply and Stiles drew back, eyebrows knitting together.

            “Wha- what did you say?”

            Castiel looked up at Stiles, blue eyes bright. “She did not tell you.” It wasn’t a question.

            “What? Who didn’t tell me? Didn’t tell me what?” Stiles’ hand banged into the steering wheel hard as he gestured wildly, confused and growing angry. 

            Castiel gave an impatient sigh, as if Stiles was the one being obtuse. “Your mother died several years ago. She grew ill suddenly and inexplicably, and died slowly. Just like all the others. She was nephilim. You are half-nephilim. I know your name because it was the name of your grandfather.” Castiel dead-panned. “Any other questions?”

            Bright brown eyes, wide and full of confusion, blinked several times while the gently sloping mouth beneath them sputtered out: “Only like a million!”

            "Perhaps we should catch up to our... _friends_ ," Castiel suggested. "We seem to have lost them and I don't think they'll appreciate finding us missing."

            “Yeah, Derek will kill your boyfriend if I’m late.” There was no hint of an empty threat in his tone, despite how easy he said it.

            A soft smile touched Cas’ lips then. “He can try.”

 

* * *

 

            “Take a left up here,” Derek told Dean, nodding his head toward the intersection.

            Dean’s eyebrows furrowed, looking where Derek had pointed at the suburban community. “Here?” he asked incredulously. “They live here?”

            Derek raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? Sixth house on the left.”

            “Hm. Hunters ain’t known for living in the middle of people like this, out in the open.” Dean made the turn and drove slowly among the large homes. 

            “Well, the Argents are different,” Derek said, directing Dean to park across the street. “While you're in there, if you catch another werewolf in with Argent's daughter, tell him to get his ass back home. We’ve got training in the morning.”

            "Training?" Dean echoed, surprised. He glanced sidelong at Derek. "You... so what, there are other werewolves here?"

            Derek sighed. Of course there were other werewolves. He wondered if Dean had only ever hunted omegas. "Yeah. We do run in packs, you know. Alphas, betas, omegas..." At Dean's confused look, Derek rolled his eyes. "I thought you were a hunter."

            Indignation scrawled across Dean's face. "I am a damn hunter!" he retorted hotly. "We've never hunted a pack of werewolves. Closest I ever saw to that was in purgatory when they'd group up, but they were wolfed out then. Feral."

            Snorting, Derek turned to look back at the road. "We're not feral. We have control on the full moons."

            "So you're an alpha?" Dean asked, and that surprised Derek, that he had guessed.

            "Yes," Derek ground out.

            "And the others... you bit them? They're under you?" His knuckles were turning white on the steering wheel and Derek could hear his heartbeat speed up. Clearly the idea was not a pleasant one for Dean.

            "I turned one of them, yes," Derek said. "I asked first, and he became my beta. That's how we form packs."

            "So this kid at Argent's house... he's your beta?" Dean asked. He didn't look over to see the pinch of Derek's expression. "And you're just letting him screw one of the hunters that killed your family?"

            “Not my beta,” he replied through gritted teeth.

 

* * *

 

            Stiles threw the Jeep into first and pulled back onto the street before they could get too far behind Derek and the hunter. He hadn't been joking when he said Derek might try to kill Dean; there wasn't a lot of rational thought left over when Derek got it into his head that Stiles was in danger. Instead of letting his mind wander down that gruesome path, he tried to wrap it around what Castiel had told him.

            “So wait, lemme get this straight. You’re saying that my mother’s father was an _angel_? Like, an honest to god angel, wings-and-baseball-playing angel?”

            “I do not know that any angels have ever played baseball, but yes, we do have wings.”

            “No, I meant like, from the movie,” Stiles tried to explain. Cas just stared at him blankly. “Right, you don’t get it. Angel of the Lord and all.”

            “If you would just remove your top garments, I could show you,” Castiel insisted. 

            “Woah woah woah, what? You want me to take off my shirts? What for?” he asked, voice high and screechy. 

            “So that I can show you your Grace.”

            “Look, dude, I’m not- we’re in public, okay?” Stiles told him, wildly uncomfortable with the request to remove clothing coming from the guy he’d literally only just met under semi-violent conditions. “Let’s just say I believe you for now. So what?”

            Castiel gave him a slight head tilt, as if he didn’t understand the question. “You’re part angel.”

            “Yeah,” Stiles grated out. “Yeah, I got that much.”

            He paused, and pieces were falling into place as his brain scrambled to put the situation together. They’d all but run Stiles off the road earlier, but the angel currently riding shotgun hadn’t raised a finger to help the human with Derek. Dean had seemed surprised that they’d found werewolves, seemed to already know Stiles’ father’s name, and all of it seemed to mean that-

            “So then you weren’t looking for Derek,” he said, hushed, like saying it too loudly would let all hell break loose. “You were looking for me.”

            “Yes,” Castiel admitted. It sounded so _simple_. “I didn’t know it was you until we heard your surname. We have traveled a long way to find you.”

            “Why?” Stiles asked hotly, knuckles white on the steering wheel. They were nearly to Allison’s house, and he was sure Derek would hear his heart thrumming before they could even park. It was going to get messy. “Why me?”

            Castiel dropped his gaze, jaw tight. He looked… guilty, Stiles thought. “Do you remember the meteor shower a couple of months ago?” The question seemed so _heavy_ under the gravel of his voice.

            “Yeah,” Stiles said. “Yeah, thousands of meteors without a source, all over the world at once. Killed a few people, they said. Well, more than a few.”

            “They weren’t humans,” Castiel told him solemnly. “Those they found in the craters were angels; fallen angels. A… rogue angel was able to- to _expel_ all of the other angels from Heaven. They fell to Earth, and they cannot get back.”

            “They can’t just… fly back up?” Stiles asked. It sounded much sillier out loud than it did in his head.

            The frown that touched Castiel’s features caused Stiles to instantly regret the suggestion. “No,” Castiel responded tightly. “They lack the means.”

            A flurry of images whirled through Stiles’ mind, of wingless angels, powerless angels. He spared a glance to Castiel as he turned down Allison’s street. “What about you?”

            A wry smile twitched at Castiel’s lips. “My Grace was taken from me before the spell completed,” he answered. “I am… human, now. Despite what your instincts have told you.”

            Stiles let out a low whistle, scrubbing one hand through his hair. It was longer than it had been a few years ago, when all of this had started, but he’d never gotten over his habit. “That sucks, man. I’m sorry.”

            “It was not your fault,” Castiel assured him. “However, we believe you may be able to help us get it back. We believe you may be able to help us return the angels to Heaven.”

            A chill swept down Stiles’ spine, heart rate spiking up at the words. Help return _all_ of the angels to Heaven? It sounded so… big. It sounded so _out of his league_ , made him feel completely out of his depth even trying to think of it. “What?” he rasped, barely a breath as he somehow managed to roll to a stop behind the sleek Impala already parked across the street from the house.

            Castiel only got so far as repeating “We believe-” before Derek practically tore the passenger side door from its hinges and hauled Castiel bodily from the seat. Stiles was flailing for his seatbelt and yelling at Derek in the same instant, trying to tell him everything was fine. He didn’t make it halfway around the Jeep before Dean had his white-handled gun to Derek’s back, right where his heart would be. There was shouting and snarling and Stiles could hear Castiel saying he was fine at the same time as Stiles but neither of the others were listening until the front door of the Argent’s house slammed open and Chris Argent was stepping out.

            “What the hell is going on out here?” demanded Chris, gun already out, Allison on his heels with her bow. “Stiles? _Dean_?”

            “Oh thank god,” Stiles gushed, very nearly going limp at the sight of the older hunter. “Uh, there’s been a- a really freaking big misunderstanding. Castiel, here,” he said, indicating the fallen angel, “was telling me a story and Derek thought I was in trouble, and Dean, here,” he said, indicating the younger hunter, “thought his friend Castiel was in trouble.” He looked around at all gathered, and then back to Chris. “But actually none of us are in trouble and we all really freaking need to talk immediately. Hello Allison.”

            “You’re literally incapable of normal human interactions, aren’t you?” Allison asked, lowering her bow.

            “You're as charming as ever,” Stiles returned with a smile. “But seriously. Talking?”

            “Put your weapon down, Dean,” Chris told him. He clearly remembered the other hunter.

            “I’ll put my weapon down when you explain to me why a freaking _Argent_ is defending a _werewolf_!” Dean snapped. "You know better, man!"

            “Derek, let him go,” Stiles demanded, now that it was quiet enough he could be heard. “Please.”

            Though it was reluctant, Derek released Castiel. It was even a gentle release, and Castiel took it with grace. He laid a hand on Derek’s shoulder and dipped his head slightly when he thanked Derek, and it was all very confusing for everyone. Then Dean’s gun was in Castiel’s hand, and then it was gone entirely, and Dean seemed just as bewildered about it as everyone else.

            “I believe that we should convene elsewhere. Perhaps someplace less in the public eye?” Castiel suggested, as if a convention of hunters and werewolves and angels and nephilim were as perfectly normal as asking some friends over for drinks.

            Who knows, Stiles thought as he grabbed Derek’s elbow and propelled him toward the house. Maybe it _was_ normal for them.

 

* * *

 

 

            “So you guys fucked up pretty badly,” Derek concluded, after Dean and Castiel had told their story. He couldn’t hide the grin that curled his lips.

            “There were _mistakes_ ,” Dean grunted, frowning. Stiles watched the slip of his vision over to the ex-angel, and the guilt that had washed over Castiel’s expression earlier jumped to Stiles’ mind. “We’re trying to fix it, and we need this kid’s help.”

            “I’d love to help,” Stiles told them, though it sounded a lot more like _I’d rather jump naked off a bridge into shark infested water._ “But I don’t have any special powers or anything.”

            “No, you wouldn’t,” Castiel agreed. “But you don’t need to. You have something else.”

            “My… whatever you called it. Grace?” Stiles asked, brows furrowing. “What is that even?”

            “It is the essence of an angel,” Castiel explained. “It is what gives us our power, and what allows us to access Heaven. Without one we become, more or less, human.”

            “Like you,” Allison said quietly.

            “Yes,” Castiel agreed again. “Like me. Like all of my fallen brothers and sisters.”

            “And you want Stiles’ Grace,” Derek concluded.

            “It is not a full Grace,” Castiel clarified, shifting uncomfortably at Derek’s hostile tone. “You are only a quarter angel; the Grace you have is only a spark, only a fraction of what true Grace is. But it may be enough to allow one angel to travel back to Heaven, to set free the Grace of the others. To save all of Heaven.”

            Stiles let out the breath he’d been holding. “Will it hurt?” he asked quietly.

            “Yes,” Castiel told him honestly. “But it will pass. If we succeed, I will ensure that it is returned to you.”

           When Stiles glanced over to Derek, there was nothing helpful in his scowl.  Chris and Allison looked as lost as he felt, and Stiles really just wanted five minutes for the room to stop spinning with all this new knowledge, but the urgency in Castiel and Dean’s voices as they’d explained the state of the world - and the new strangers in town causing all those problems for his father suddenly made _so_ much more sense - suggested that they didn’t really have luxuries like _time._

            “Okay,” he said, and he was proud that his voice didn’t shake even though he could feel himself trembling. Derek’s hand slipped warm into his and he forced himself to try to calm down. “Okay, what do I have to do?”

            “Hold up,” Derek cut in, moving forward, stopped only when Stiles tightened his grip on his hand. “No one is doing anything just yet.” He felt vulnerable, exposed, surrounded by hunters. He was, for once, disappointed to find that Scott had not snuck over here for the night.

            “Derek, dude, we can’t just say no,” Stiles reasoned in a harsh whisper. “This is end-of-the-world huge, man. Literally.”

            Derek turned back to look directly at him, gesturing with his free hand. “So you're just going to trust them? How do we even know that you are what they say you are?”

            “That’s rich, coming from a werewolf,” Dean interjected, flashing a sharp smile when Derek scowled at him.

           Choosing not to take the bait, Derek turned his attention back to Stiles, eyes pleading. He didn't have to say anything, Stiles knew what he was asking, and he sputtered a moment, trying to figure out how to explain the feeling in his bones that said this was _right_.

            Castiel spoke up, saving him the trouble. “As I told Tem-“ Stiles tsked and shot him a fierce look. “… Stiles,” Cas continued, squinting at the odd way the name rolled off his tongue. He looked around Derek to meet Stiles’ eyes. “As I told you before, I _can_ show you your Grace.”

            Stiles nodded, remembering the odd conversation in the Jeep. “Yeah.” He nodded again, this time with more intent. “Okay,” he agreed, releasing Derek’s hand as he got to his feet and shrugged off his red hoodie. Derek looked at him queerly.

            Stepping around Derek with an anxious sigh, Stiles glanced up to Allison and Chris before casting his eyes down and swallowing his embarrassment audibly. He crossed his arms over his chest and started to strip out of his t-shirts, but Derek caught his arm with a low growl and Chris cleared his throat uncomfortably. Stiles rolled his eyes.

            “Calm down, Derek, this is how he needs to show me.” He looked up to Castiel, eyes questioning. “Right?”

            “That is correct.” Castiel stepped forward.

            “Dammit, just- wait,” Derek gritted out, clenching his fist too tightly around Stiles’ arm.

            Stiles whipped around with a little noise, placing a hand over Derek's, and Derek relaxed his hold but did not release him. When their eyes met, Stiles could see the indecision in them, and he did his best to convey his feelings wordlessly. Regardless of what either of them wanted, he needed Derek to stay calm and just let him do this.

            This time Dean was the one to clear his throat, loudly.

            Though Derek pursed his lips, he nodded to Stiles and pulled his arm away. He flicked his gaze to Castiel. “Fine. How exactly does this work?” he asked.

            “I can open a window to your heart, show you where your Grace resides,” Castiel told Stiles, and at the teen's shocked expressed he hurried to add: “It won't hurt you. It will just be a peek.”

            “Okay. Then what do we need?” Stiles finished pulling his shirts off, tossing them to the ground at his feet. He crossed his arms over his torso, feeling uncomfortable and exposed enough to let Derek pull him back against his chest by his shoulders. That, at least, was familiar.

            "Blood," Dean said, already holding in a wince as all eyes in the room flicked to him.

            "No!" Derek said, voice firm, grip tightening on Stiles' shoulders. "Hell no."

            "Derek-" Stiles began, turning his head back to look at him.

            "No, Stiles," Derek insisted, interrupting. "I'm not just gonna let these strangers carve into you to perform _witchcraft-_ "

            Castiel stepped forward in an attempt to placate the agitated wolf. "I assure you, it's not-"

            When Derek cut him off with a growl, baring his teeth, he found himself facing Dean instead. "Watch it, buddy," Dean warned him, just as Chris said: "Not in my house, Hale."

            "All of you, just shut up for a second," Stiles shouted at the room. "Can we at least hear all of this before we freak out?" He pointed at Dean and continued very matter-of-factly. "Okay, so you need blood. What else?"

            "Nothing else," Dean explained, pulling out a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and passing it to Stiles. "You just have to draw this sigil, in your blood, on your chest."

            "Fine." He twisted in Derek’s arms until they were standing chest to chest and reached his hands up to cup Derek’s face. “Hey. Look at me,” he ordered. Derek was still on high alert, eyes flicking around to all of the threats in the room. “Look at me.” Derek’s gaze found his and Stiles spoke slowly. “You need to calm down. I’m fine. If they say they can prove themselves, I’m willing to give them a shot. It’s not like they want to slit my throat, they just need a little blood.” He threw a glance back over his shoulder. “Right?” Dean and Castiel nodded in unison. “See? It’s not like I haven’t shed plenty of blood in the past, huh?” Stiles chuckled softly, but Derek didn’t even crack a smile, just nodded a little.

            “We good?” Dean asked then, raised eyebrows accenting his impatience.

            “Yeah, we’re good,” Stiles answered slowly, not moving his eyes from Derek’s. After a moment, he pulled away from Derek and stepped to Castiel, shoulders back, then bent to pull the knife strapped to his ankle.

            Dean pointed to the sigil scrawled on the paper. “You need to draw it across your chest, with the center right over your heart,” he explained.

            Stiles nodded, examining the page. “And then I say these words?” he clarified, indicating the foreign text scribbled along the bottom of the paper. Castiel nodded. “Alright, can I get a mirror then?”

            Chris looked to Allison, who nodded and disappeared down a hallway, returning with a small, hand-held mirror. She placed it in Derek’s outstretched hand and Derek held it up in front of Stiles, who then handed the paper to Derek as well.

            Taking a deep breath, Stiles pressed the knife into the tip of his pointer finger and sliced it open. He winced, gritting his teeth, and saw Derek’s jaw clench. He carefully began painting the sigil across his chest, making sure it was exact. When he finished, he leaned forward, squinting as he tried to decipher the messy handwriting.

            When he spoke, his voice was strong, confident. Castiel could tell this was not his first incantation. “Zoda kama mahrana*.”

            Stiles blinked, staring into the mirror. Derek’s eyes had gone wide, but Stiles was entirely focused on the image he saw.

            The bloodied circle of the sigil now seemed to be a gaping hole. Within it, Stiles could see all the way through to his heart. In the mirror, he could see his heart pumping, see the way it pushed blood through his arteries. He reached a hand up and splayed it over the area, surprised to find he still felt his own chest there.

            Despite the gruesome sight, Stiles wasn’t horrified. He was mystified. Wrapped entirely around his heart, encasing it, was a misty, white essence. It had a soft glow and he could see the edges of it swirling in little eddies, as if stirred by a breeze.

            “Oh my god. Wha-“ Stiles started, lost for words.

            “That is your Grace,” Castiel stated, a fondness in his voice that Stiles did not miss.

           Stiles looked up to see that everyone in the room had moved behind Derek and was staring at the same sight he was. He cleared his throat, straightening and met Derek’s eyes to find that they were just as perplexed as he felt.

            “Okay,” he mumbled, sticking his injured finger into his mouth. “So I think that’s enough proof for me. Um, how do I turn this off?”

            Castiel stepped forward. “It will dissipate when the blood dries.”

            Stiles watched for another few moments with wide eyes before the hole to his heart began to return to its normal state, the blood drying and flaking from his chest.

            “You okay?” Derek asked earnestly, putting down the mirror and paper. Stiles nodded.

            “So, you gonna help us?” Dean was looking at Stiles with something akin to desperation. 

            “Tell me something first.” Stiles looked to Castiel. “My mother. You knew how she died. You said all the others died the same way.” Castiel nodded. Stiles could sense that all eyes in the room were laser-focused on him, could feel Derek’s hand intertwine with his, squeezing, but right now all his focus was on the angel – well, former angel – standing before him. “I want to know what happened.”

            Castiel pursed his lips at the unpleasant change in topic. “She was consumed,” he stated simply. Stiles’ eyebrows shot up in a way that clearly indicated that Castiel was not yet done explaining. He sighed and continued. “A full nephilim, the offspring of an angel and a human, is a _very_ powerful creature. They are also incredibly _unstable_. Angels consider them to be abominations,” he hedged, having learned from Sam that humans did not like to be referred to in this way.

            Stiles didn’t even flinch. He may not know all of what was going on, but that much he’d gathered from random researching of lore and the snippets Lydia had translated from the bestiary. Derek, on the other hand, looked rather irritated about being interested. He may not have known much about angels or nephilim, but he knew a thing or two about people considering someone to be an abomination.

            “ _God_ did not give them this name; the angels call them so because nephilim cannot survive long term. They assume they were not meant to live at all.” Stiles’ eyes grew dark and Derek’s flashed red, but Castiel continued. “Nephilim have both a human soul and an angel's Grace, but the two cannot cohabitate permanently. The Grace will burn out or consume the human soul to recharge itself because it was never connected properly to the Host. Once the human soul is consumed, the Grace slowly withers, and the nephilim dies."

            A loud sniff cut the silence in the room that followed Castiel’s words and Stiles’ reached up to wipe a tear from his cheek. Derek looked lost, a mix of anger and hopelessness, and it was clear he and Stiles had made the same connection. However, it was Allison who spoke up.

            “Will-“ she whispered softly, distress etched on her porcelain face. “Is that going to happen to Stiles?”

            "I cannot know for sure,” Castiel admitted. “Because your Grace is not as powerful as a full nephilim, it is possible your human soul might not be consumed for much longer, if at all. However, the opposite may be true as well; it may consume your soul's energy much faster in an attempt to make itself whole."

            "And if you- if you take it out?" Allison asked, because Stiles and Derek both looked a little ill at the prospect of Stiles dying early.

            "If he removes it, he will survive to live a normal, human life." Castiel turned his attention back to Stiles and Derek, observed passively as Stiles dropped onto the couch, dragging Derek down with him. "We translated a tablet which contains the Word of God. Removal of a nephilim's Grace is the only way to save it from its fate."

            "That's convenient," Derek scoffed. "You guys need a- a Grace, and suddenly the only way to save Stiles' life is to take his? How do we know pulling that Grace out won't kill him?"

            “If Stiles were a full nephilim, and the Grace had taken over, it would surely kill him. But-” Castiel started.

            “But I’m not,” Stiles finished. He looked to Derek. “I know you don’t trust them, but I do. Don’t ask me why, Derek, I just-I feel it in my bones. This is _right_. This _feels_ right.” He nodded, mostly to reassure himself, then let go of Derek’s hand and stood.

Stiles looked up to where Dean and Castiel stood together, glanced to where Allison and Chris looked entirely out of their element before returning his gaze to them. “Let’s do this.”

            Nodding, Castiel pulled open his trench coat and extracted a three-edged blade. Derek immediately tensed, but Stiles simply watched the former angel as he also withdrew a small, clear vial. Noting Derek's concern, Castiel offered the blade to Stiles hilt-first as he spoke. "It is required to make a small incision over your Grace, but if you prefer, it does not have to be made by us."

            To everyone's surprise, it was Derek who reached around Stiles and accepted the blade. He huffed impatiently when Stiles turned a questioning look his way. "You're doing this no matter what I say, so at least let me help."

            Stiles gave a little nod of agreement, then turned back to Castiel. "And after that?"

            "After that I will call your Grace into this," he said, holding up the vial. In the light of the room, Stiles could see the very faint etchings. Sigils, like the one he had painted on his chest.

            "How deep?" Derek ground out, aggressively not looking at either Castiel or Dean.

            "Not deep," Castiel told him. "A quarter inch should be sufficient."

            Jaw locked tight, Derek laid a hand over Stiles' chest, and looked him in the eye. "You ready?" When Stiles nodded, Derek raised the blade and placed the tip to Stiles' flesh. He was surprised how easily it cut, as though it were razor thin and piping hot. Black flooded through his veins as he flayed a short, shallow cut to Stiles' skin, over his heart. Even with him leeching pain, Stiles gave a small wince and hissed.

            "Do it," Stiles ordered, shifting Derek to the side with one hand to allow Castiel near without making Derek lose contact.

            Castiel stepped forward, chanting Enochian with soft authority, and Stiles gave a small, stuttered noise of pain. He could feel it, in his chest, feel it squeeze and cling to him as Castiel spoke. It was a lot like being punched in the gut, all his breath stolen, a sharp, insistent pain clawing around aimlessly inside of him until at last Castiel finished speaking. Stiles found himself incredibly glad for Derek's presence, for the way that he volunteered to share in the pain to lessen it.

            Slowly, Stiles' wound began to seep white light. Castiel quickly brought the vial to bear against his skin, and the light swirled into it as if drawn there. When the last wisp disappeared through the neck, Castiel capped it and stepped away from Stiles and Derek. Stiles very nearly collapsed against Derek, gasping in breath now that his chest was not so constricted. Everyone else in the room was silent, staring at the little vial held in the flat of Castiel's open palm.

            Stiles' brow furrowed, but it was Dean that cleared his throat and gathered everyone's attention. "Cas?"

            Shaken from his momentary stupor, Castiel blinked and looked around. "Ah, yes," he said quickly, as though just remembering they had business. "May I have my blade?"

            After passing it over, Derek guided Stiles into sitting down while Allison disappeared to fetch first aid equipment. Castiel whirled the blade around expertly, changing his grip in order to lay a small slice to the skin of his throat. With shaking hands, he handed over the blade to Dean, and then uncapped the vial. Grace bubbled out, hesitant, and then swirled eagerly up and into Castiel.

           Almost as soon as the Grace disappeared from sight, Castiel's wound healed. He cried out, stumbling forward a little, and the trench coat flapped out behind him, the sound of rending fabric startling in the silence. Dean was at his side in an instant, grabbing onto his arm to steady him, and then everyone - even Allison who had just returned with a kit - was staring at what appeared to an absolutely huge set of tawny-colored wings protruding from underneath the coat.

            "What the hell, Cas?" Dean demanded.

            Castiel's face scrunched and he began scrabbling to get out of the coat, out of his _clothes_ as Dean made noises of protest. "My wings," Castiel managed, ragged and breathless. "Dean, my wings!"

            "How do you have wings?" Dean asked, grabbing one side of the trench and helping him out of it without even really thinking about it.

            "Doesn't he always have wings?" Stiles piped up, one hand pressed over the wound on his chest. Beside him, Derek was scowling at how surprised the two foreign hunters seemed to be. "He's an angel."

            "Yeah, but-" Dean began, and Stiles had a point, but that just wasn't how it worked. "Usually we don't see 'em. Something's wrong."

            "It's not _my_ Grace," Castiel explained as he shed the last remnants of his shirt. To everyone's amazement, even Derek's, Castiel flexed open his wings experimentally, filling the room and letting out an almost contented sigh. Stiles wondered how long he'd been human.

            "All right," Dean said, clapping his hands with a smile that said they were back in business. "You got some mojo, time to go home, Cas."

            Castiel's wings drooped at the words, and he looked at Dean. "I can't."

            "What- Of course you can," Dean said incredulously. "Look, you gotta go back, man. I know that we- that we-"

            "No, Dean," Castiel clarified before Dean could say anything else. "I mean I _can't_." He ruffled his wings, spread them out again, and nothing happened. "I cannot move through the Veil."

            "Why not?" Dean was getting petulant about it, like Castiel had any way of knowing their plan would do anything but succeed.

            "Because there is not enough power," Castiel said, firm and a bit exasperated. But Stiles recognized the hint of nervous insecurity, the panic at the edges of his tone. They had needed this to work.

            "Can you fly there without moving through the Veil?" Stiles asked, trying on the new vocabulary.

            Castiel frowned and met Dean's gaze, but Dean only shrugged at him. "You could try it," Dean said, and Castiel sighed through his nose and then began maneuvering around furniture toward the front door.

            Chris stood as Allison passed him, hurrying to Stiles' side. She handed Derek the first aid kit, because it didn't look like Derek wanted anyone at all near Stiles right now. "We'll keep an eye on them," she said, so low that only Derek would catch the words with his werewolf hearing. "Get him patched up."

            Nodding his thanks, Derek cracked open the kit and Allison left him to it. She followed her dad out of the house, trailing after Dean and Castiel onto their front lawn. For once she was glad that her neighbors were nosy; they had long since stopped caring about the weird shit that occurred on her front lawn. Seeing a man with huge wings take off into the star-filled sky probably didn't even warrant a call to Sheriff Stilinski.

            "Angels, Dean?" Chris asked the moment Castiel was out of sight. Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. "You maybe want to fill me in on what you and your brother have been up to since I saw you last?"

            Dean smiled weakly, because the last time he'd seen Chris Argent - the last time he'd seen any of the Argents - had been during the apocalypse, and that had been a very brief meeting after the Rising of the Witnesses had gone down and hunters were scrambling to get into contact with one another. Chris had been separated from the rest of his family, traveling with just his wife and kid, and Castiel had been absent. He hadn't gotten a chance to explain the whole we-have-an-angel-sidekick business.

            Before he could say anything, though, Allison clucked her tongue and gave him a sharp look. "I thought you looked familiar!" she exclaimed. "Where's Sam?"

            Dean's brows shot up in surprise as he looked to her, impressed that she remembered them. "He's uh, he's at the police station. We came here looking for that kid, but we caught a rumor there'd been some deaths. Werewolves. Cas and I left to find them."

            She nodded as if that made perfect sense. "You should _probably_ tell him he can stop looking and just come over."

            Chris smiled when Dean gave him a look that said _you've got some explaining to do, too_. Without further comment, though, Dean pulled out his cell phone, pressed Sam's contact button, and waited. Their conversation was succinct and even from a few feet away Allison could hear the annoyance in Sam's tone that said Dean should have called sooner.

            A moment later the sound of wings filled the air and Castiel was standing before them, wings mantled up from his landing. The air around him stirred slightly, but he stood stock still, as if he had appeared from thin air rather than touching down gracefully. His wings began slowly, silently folding behind him. He seemed out of breath when he spoke.

            "I could not pass into Heaven," he said heavily as Derek appeared in the doorway, Stiles dressed and on his heels, the wing beats having alerted them. "I did not have the power to pass through any of the entry points I would normally have used."

            "It's not enough," Stiles said from behind them all, drawing their attention. "It's only a quarter of the power, right?"

            Castiel nodded, though it seemed defeated. "I had truly hoped-"

            "What if you could have more?" Stiles interrupted. Castiel squinted a little at him, and he found he couldn't quite keep the angel's gaze. "When you pulled out my Grace? I realized that I- I've seen that before. The day my mom died."

            Tipping his head, Castiel began moving toward Stiles. "You saw her Grace?"

            Stiles nodded, his guilt almost tangible to all present. "She- she took it out," Stiles mumbled, voice cracking. "She gave it to me, but I didn't even know what it was until today."

            "And you still have it?" Dean demanded urgently. Stiles nodded, looking over to him.

            "It's in my room," Stiles croaked. He was really not prepared to deal with this tonight.

 

* * *

 

            Stiles rummaged through his closet while his dad watched, leaning against the doorframe of the room, his arms crossed over his chest. "It's never a stray cat," his father said thoughtfully, and Stiles poked his head out around the closet door.

            "What?"

            "You never seem to find anything natural," his father explained, raising his eyebrows as if daring Stiles to argue. "It's always werewolves, or kanimas, or cursed objects, or a faerie that one time. And now it's angels."

            Stiles stared for a moment, then gave a little shake of his head. "Do you want a cat?"

            "Would you stop bringing home supernatural strays if you got a real pet?" his father asked instead of answering. When Stiles just twitched his eyebrows up as if to say _not really_ , his father sighed. "Then no. I just can't figure out how they all seem to find you."

            "Apparently it's hereditary," Stiles grumbled as he returned to the task at hand. "Did you know mom was half angel?"

            "Only half?" his father said softly. Stiles felt a smile curl at the edges of his lips. "No, she never said anything. I can't even imagine how that conversation would have gone."

            Stiles snorted. "Oh, I dunno, probably something like how 'hey Dad, can we talk about werewolves for a minute?' went for us. Ah-ha." He uncovered the music box from its buried location, wrapping long fingers protectively around it.

            "Oh," his father said the moment he saw it. His eyes ticked up to meet Stiles' gaze. "That belonged to your grandfather. He made it for your mother when she was a kid."

            "Yeah," Stiles agreed, just standing there, clutching it close because it was one of the few things he had left of her. "She used to play it for me at the hospital."

            His father nodded a little, unfolded his arms, and pushed lightly away from the door frame. "It sings," he reminded Stiles. "Do you remember the song?"

            "I remember the tune," Stiles said. "The words weren't English." Realization lit his eyes. "I bet they're Angel."

            A little hum of agreement escaped his father before he smiled. "I wonder if he'd translate."

            "They're sort of in the middle of saving the world or something," Stiles pointed out, but it got his feet moving to think that Castiel might be able to tell them. His dad let him pass, then followed him down the stairs to where the most awkward silence in the history of mankind had taken up residence.

            Everyone got to their feet in relief when Stiles entered, holding aloft the music box. "A curse box?" Dean blurted as soon as he saw it.

            "That's Enochian," Castiel responded, holding out his hands in such a gentle manner than Stiles found himself passing the music box over without a second thought. Castiel ran one reverent hand over it, and then looked up to meet Stiles' eyes. "Your grandfather hand crafted this." He shifted his gaze to Dean, as if that should mean something more. "There is _power_ in this box, Dean."

            "We don't gotta wait for Christmas," Dean told him impatiently. "Open it up."

           Castiel ran one hand smoothly along the seam of the lid and then cracked it open. Light flooded out, bright and white, and Castiel's eyes widened slightly. He knelt to place the box on the coffee table and opened the lid fully. It began to sing, soft and melodic as Castiel pulled out a small vial identical to the one he had used earlier with Stiles.

            "Do you think it's enough?" Stiles asked, hushed.

            Without answering, Castiel accepted his blade from Dean and made a nick in the skin of his throat. White light shone through this time, and when he held up the new vial the lights began to swirl as though excited. Both lights burst into tendrils that coiled up and around and through one another until they were indistinguishable. Then they were gone, zipping through the incision Castiel had made, sealing it in their wake. Castiel's eyes lit blue-white for a split second before he closed them.

            Behind him, his wings faded into nothingness.

            Castiel collapsed over the coffee table with a grunt of pain.

            A second later Dean was on the floor to one side of him, Stiles on the other, and he was shaking them both off with an uncoordinated wave of his hands. "I'm fine," he gasped, though it was clear he wasn't. A pale sheen of glow lit beneath his skin.

            "Oh my god," Stiles marveled, meeting Dean's eyes over the top of Castiel. "Look."

            "Cas, talk to me, buddy," Dean said, low and urgent, and Stiles recognized the special brand of panic in the tone. "What's going on?"

            "It's the Grace," Castiel ground out through gritted teeth. "The two parts are attempting to mend themselves into one whole."

            "Okay," Dean said slowly. "And...?"

            "And they are using my soul to power their fusion," Castiel bit out, irritated. He coughed, though it did nothing to ease the tightness of his chest, the way his throat closed on the internal catastrophe. "This was probably a poor decision."

            “A poor- Cas! Ya think?” Dean put a hand out to Castiel’s shoulder to steady him and met his glare. “Did you know this was going to happen?” he accused.

            Castiel pressed his lips together with a guilty tension in his eyes. “I was aware of the possibility,” he replied simply.

            “Oh my god.” Stiles ran a hand over his head, messing up his hair. “I just killed an angel. Holy hell, I just killed an angel.” He was looking in horror at Castiel, who met his eyes with a small shake of his head.

            “It will not kill m-ahhhh!” Castiel shouted, collapsing back onto his forearms across the coffee table, his knees giving out.

            “Cas!” Dean crouched down beside him, hands hovering over Castiel as if afraid to touch him.

            “I’m gonna take a shot in the dark and say that what’s actually happening isn’t much better than him dying.”

           Dean scowled up at Stiles, causing Derek to bare his teeth. “This isn’t a joke, kid. Ain’t got something helpful to add, then shut it.”

            “Does anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on and how we’re supposed to stop this?” the Sheriff cut in.

            Castiel began to lift himself up from the table, but collapsed back down again. Dean’s eyes flicked between Derek and John before settling on the latter. “Help me,” he told the Sheriff, indicating Castiel. John stepped forward and together they hauled Castiel from his position to settle him on the couch. Stiles watched Derek’s hands twitch, knowing the alpha could’ve lifted the former-angel unaided – and far more gently. He stepped closer to Derek, grabbing his hand and intertwining their fingers.

            All eyes in the room were glued to Castiel then, watching his heavy breathing and the way he held an arm across his torso as if to hold himself together.

            Eventually, Castiel spoke. “If the Graces deplete my soul before-“ He inhaled sharply, closing his eyes a moment before continuing. “Before they have finished merging, a new angel will be born. You can still-”

            Dean furrowed his eyebrows, looking at Castiel with a mix of horror and confusion. “Whoa, hold up. A new angel? What does that- what about you?”

            Castiel turned and met Dean’s eyes, a world of unspoken words between them.

            Dean’s eyes grew wide, several warring emotions playing out; by the far the most evident was fear. “No. No, Cas, hell no. That is out of the question. We have not come this far for you to just give up now. Not on my watch.” Castiel opened his mouth to protest, but Dean cut him off. “I don’t wanna hear it, Cas. You’re sticking around to figure this out with us. We clear?”

            Castiel pursed his lips, then nodded, wincing at the way his very essence seemed to be tearing itself apart.

            “How much time do we have?” Stiles asked. "Before...?"

“Half an hour. Maybe less.”

“How do we stop it?” Derek’s voice seemed to startle Dean, who whipped back to look at him. But Derek paid him no attention. His eyes were on the angel.

            “I need energy,” Castiel said simply.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Explode? Like, world-goes-boom-in-a-flash-of-light explode? Like destroy my bedroom explode?”

            “Oh, no,” Castiel told him, and Stiles gave a small sigh of relief. “It is likely the entirety of Beacon Hills would be wiped from the map.”

            “Okay,” Dean interjected. “Enough with the pep talk. Cas knows what he’s doing. I’ll be fine. Nothing is going boom, ya got me?”

            Stiles still looked unsure, but nodded. 

            “Why you?” Derek asked, looking at the hunter.

            Dean turned to him, face betraying his surprise at being questioned by a werewolf. “Because this is our problem and we’ll deal with it. You just need to stay out of the way.”

            Derek stepped forward, already shaking his head. “That’s Stiles’ Grace. His mother’s Grace. It might’ve been your epic fuck-up that caused all this, but now we’re involved whether you like it or not.”

            “Well, that’s just great for you, but it doesn’t change anything," Dean snapped. "I’m doing this because I’m the only one that _can_.”

            “Why? Because you’re a _big-bad hunter_?” The degree to which Derek was not impressed leaked into his tone.

            Derek and Dean stood on opposite sides of the coffee table, arguing across it as the others looked on, unable to get a word in.  “No, dumbass, because I’m _human_.”

            “That’s not-“ Stiles spoke up, but Castiel cut him off.

            “He’s right. The soul must be human. If Stiles’ soul comes in contact with his Grace, it will return to him. The same would happen to John, as he and Amelia’s Grace shared a profound bond.”

            Derek looked pissed, and opened his mouth to argue but was cut off by a knock at the door. “Who the-“ Dean started to ask, looking at the clock. Sheriff ducked out of the room with a hushed “I’ll get it,” and they all fell silent.

            Ignoring Dean’s glare, Derek listened as the Sheriff answered the door for someone named Sam, who he remembered was Dean’s brother. “Oh joy, more hunters,” he said under his breath to Stiles, whose lip quirked up at the edge. The Sheriff started rambling off about angels and souls and explosions, and a loud “DEAN!” filled the house as a large figure moved through it quickly.

            “Yeah, Sammy, we’re in here,” Dean called back. A very tall, long-haired man entered the room, taking it in before turning to Dean with very evident confusion. “Nice of you to join us. I was just explaining to this _werewolf_ here,” Dean told him, throwing a hand toward Derek. “That Castiel needs a _human_ soul.”

            “Derek has a human soul,” Stiles piped up loudly, causing everyone to turn to him.

            Dean scoffed. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, but that doesn’t change the facts. Werewolves don’t have human souls-“

            Stiles cut him off. “Well, no, not Romanian werewolves. Hales aren’t Romanian werewolves though.”

            “What are you talking about?” Derek demanded at the same time that Sam turned to Derek and asked “You’re a Hale?”

            Stiles gave Sam a curious, impressed look before turning to Derek. “You’re a French-descended werewolf.” Derek raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t know that? How did you not know that? Why do you think the Argents have been after your family for like, ever?” Stiles gestured vaguely with his arm.

            “What the hell are you talking about, kid?” Dean demanded.

            “No, Dean, he’s right,” Sam announced. “French werewolves, they’re not like the ones we hunt. They don’t need to kill to stay alive, because they’re not creatures; they’re just cursed.”

            “Are you trying to tell me that these French werewolves have all these powers and have never killed anyone?” Dean asked incredulously.

            “Well, no. Sometimes they lose control – but the Argents cast the original curse, so they've been taking care of it ever since. We’ve never had to worry about it before.”

            A low growl filled the room and Dean turned to glance at Derek before looking back to Sam. “Yeah, let’s not bring them up.” He tipped his head toward Derek deliberately and Sam nodded.

            “I have very little time left,” Castiel reminded them urgently. Dean whipped around to Castiel, taking in his condition and sighing.

            He looked to Derek. “You know what? Fine. You wanna do this, go right ahead.” He took a step back, holding his arms out in welcome for Derek to step forward, Stiles mirroring his steps. Dean crossed his arms, sitting on the arm of the couch.

            Castiel sat forward and Derek dropped to his knees in front of him as Stiles placed his hands on Derek’s shoulders and squeezed. There was no way he was going to hold the werewolf still, but if nothing else he was going to lend support.

            “It will be more painful than you could ever imagine,” Castiel warned Derek, hand poised at the ready.

Derek reached a hand up to squeeze one of Stiles’ before nodding. “Just do it.”

Castiel plunged an arm slowly into Derek’s chest, teeth gritted as Derek’s screams filled the room. His eyes glowed just a moment before he closed them, concentration written in every line on his face. Derek wolfed out instantly, claws digging into his thighs, snarls escaping between extended fangs.

Stiles cringed as he pushed Derek down, knowing it did nothing and fighting every instinct in his body to pull Derek away from whatever was causing him so much pain. Dean hovered. Sam and John stood back, watching with wide eyes.

The angel groaned and tipped his head back, toward Heaven, mouth going slack in a silent shriek. When he opened his eyes, light flooded the room in a bright flash. The gathered humans turned their faces, covering their eyes with arms and hands.

Stiles fell forward, hands grasping futilely at thin air. He smacked his face on the cushion of the couch as he dropped to his knees.

“Cas!?” Dean shouted, on his feet the same instant as Stiles fell. Stiles threw a glance around the room from where he had fallen, Derek's name tumbling from his lips in the same strained, panicky tone as Dean. There was no response.

Derek and Castiel were gone.

 

* * *

 

            The landing was less than perfect. It was pretty far from _okay_ even, Derek thought as he was sent sprawling over gravel to slam into the side of the shabby little building. Castiel was not much better off, feet skidding out from under him before he released Derek and, unable to right himself in time, slamming shoulder-first into the doorjamb. Derek groaned and rolled onto his side, his body burning in a way that had nothing to do with his flesh; whatever Castiel had done to him left him feeling completely drained.

            "What the hell?" Derek accused at the same moment Castiel gave him a disgruntled look and said: "This was unexpected."

            "Unexpected?" Derek snorted and began clambering to his feet. "Where the hell are we?" He cocked his head, catching the soft sound of heartbeats from within the building.

            Castiel cast a glance around, brow furrowed. "Heaven," he stated.

            Derek gave him an incredulous stare. "Heaven," he said flatly. "You're kidding me. Heaven is a busted up parking lot and a rundown-" He looked up to the sigh above the door. "Bar and grill?"

            Castiel's gaze followed Derek's up and his eyes narrowed. Before he could explain anything, Derek was grabbing his arm and hauling him around the corner of the building just in time to avoid being seen as the door opened. The shotgun cock was loud in the following silence, and Castiel shoved Derek's hands off of him and straightened himself.

            "Put down your weapon, Ash," he called, without showing himself. "I- We are friends of Dean and Sam Winchester."

            "Cas?" called a female voice from within. Derek quickly counted; four heartbeats. He raised his nose and drew in a breath that told him two females and two males.

            "Ellen?" Castiel called back, turning to look around the corner without thinking. "You are not Ash's soul mate."

            Her laughter was thick and rich and Derek thought he could definitely come to like it if she didn't reek of being a hunter. He followed Castiel around the edge of the building and raised his hands to show he was no harm as Castiel moved for the people gathered in the entrance of the building. "I'm not," Ellen told him, one hand on her hip. "Ash here came and found us." She stepped aside and they both caught sight of a young, blonde woman behind her.

            "Jo," Castiel stated. Derek wasn't sure if it was a greeting or not. He kept his aural attention on the last heartbeat, the one that hadn't joined them yet. "It is good to see you both again."

            "Get in," Ash, the guy with the shotgun, ordered. "Before we attract any unwanted _attention_."

            "We won't," Castiel assured him, although he was following them into the Roadhouse, Derek trailing behind him uncertainly. Clearly these people had all known one another, and he thought at least the women were hunters. "That is why we are here."

            Derek looked toward the sound of the final heartbeat the moment he was indoors and caught sight of an older gentleman with a baseball cap and a thick red beard. He was watching Castiel, but his eyes flickered to Derek and narrowed. "Cas."

            "Bobby," Castiel returned, seeming a little surprised. "You made it."

            "The boys?" Bobby asked.

            Everyone seemed to pay close attention as Castiel nodded. "They're fine," he assured the gathered. "Though we are in trouble."

            "When aren't you," Bobby huffed, tipping back his glass of what Derek was sure was something very alcoholic judging by the smell. "What is it this time?"

            "The angels," Ash guessed before Castiel could say a word. When everyone looked at him with varying degrees of surprise, Ash shrugged. "I thought my equipment wasn't working, when they all disappeared. Except one. But Castiel here showed up just fine, and if he's showing up here with-" he gestured to Derek, "-whoever this is, I'd lay money down it's not for a happy reunion."

            "You'd win," Derek grumbled. "This guy shows up with his buddy and tries to kill me, then starts spouting off about all the angels falling from heaven and nephilim and next thing I know, he's carving up my mate and we're crash landing in heaven together, and not in a fun way."

            Everyone just sort of stared at him, and he stared back because he was still aching in a way that had nothing to do with his body and he was cranky and irritated and these people were busy greeting one another when they should be trying to stop whatever horrible thing he'd been dragged into with Stiles. He supposed it was a lot to take in, though, so he rolled his eyes and bit out: "I'm Derek."

            That seemed to rouse at least one of them as Ellen straightened and brushed her hands over her hips to clean them. "I'm Ellen," she introduced. "And this is Jo, my daughter. That's Ash, and that's Bobby. We're just a little shell-shocked. Bobby told us the boys - the Winchesters - were doing some trials to close the gates of Hell. What's this about falling angels, Cas?"

            Derek took a seat at the bar while Castiel explained. He'd only heard what the hunters had told him and Stiles on Earth, so he listened as well, hoping that he could learn more about the situation. There wasn't much. Some dick of an angel named Metatron tossed everyone out of Heaven for revenge and was scooting around the empty spaces left behind, collecting stories and broadcasting them over something the group collectively called Angel Radio. Derek thought it was stupid, but he listened anyway until the moment Castiel suggested he was going to leave Derek behind at the Roadhouse.

            "Not a chance," Derek protested, getting to his feet. "You're my ride home."

            "It will be easier to travel without you," Castiel told him. "It will also be safer for you."

            "So you're just going to go off and fight this guy on your own?" Derek asked, incredulous. "I've done that, Castiel, I've fought battles alone and it's not safer for anyone."

            "I do not intend to fight Metatron," Castiel assured him. "There is a spell which I must cast, and doing so requires certain.... objects. They are stored here, and I must retrieve them."

            "Going incognito," Ash said, approving. He looked to Derek like they'd won a prize. "Dude, you want to help? You stay here like the halo says, and we'll create a distraction so he doesn't get caught. Raise a little hell up in our heaven."

            Thought Derek was torn, he didn't see that he had much of a choice. Castiel was probably going to leave him here whether he agreed or not. So he nodded, and the next instant found him alone with the group of hunters. Jo smiled. "Welcome to the team."

 

* * *

 

 

            His second arrival was much more subdued than his first, as gentle as he remembered. It had been a long time since he felt the stretch of his wings in flight and it was dizzying now that he could once more. It was enough that he nearly forgot where he was going until he was there, pressing the handle to the pristine white door and pushing into the sterile looking office. The pool of Naomi's blood on the desk was the only evidence that she had been there, of what Metatron had done. He supposed she, too, had fallen with the others.

            Her reprogramming chair was gone, as were the instruments she had used to wash clean the slates of their memories. He supposed that Metatron had not wanted to see them there. He just hoped that Metatron had not sorted through all of Naomi's things. He was a storytellers, and there were billions of heavens with billions of humans in them that each had their own stories to tell.

            He skirted around the desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. There were files, clear and clean, and Castiel began pulling them out in chunks until he could reach the back. Tension leeched from his shoulders as his hands wrapped around the artifact. It was here; Metatron hadn't found it.

            He lifted the small, bronze amulet and held it up, the soft white light of the room making it seem to almost glow. Dean had thrown it away years ago, after Castiel had brought it back to him, and Sam had rescued it. He had carried it with him through all of the fight with Eve, through the Leviathan, through the year Dean and Castiel spent in Purgatory. Naomi had learned of it, and she'd asked Castiel to take it back, and he had, though he hadn't known why. She used it against him. She put it around a hundred Dean's necks to try to call Castiel back to a time before he knew he loved Dean; until she learned there was no such time for Castiel after having met Dean.

            It was still a powerful artifact, however, and so she had put it away in her desk, to be examined once this power play was over. Perhaps she wanted to use it, hunt down God, or perhaps she wanted to dismantle it and use its power. Whatever the reason, Castiel had seen her store it, and he was relieved to find it still nestled in the desk, waiting for him.

            He let his focus switch, listened to the soft cadence of Metatron on the vastly empty network. Engrossed in retelling the story he'd been told, he had taken no note of Castiel's intrusion. Castiel pocketed the amulet and winked out of the room with a flurry of wing beats, heading to his next destination.

 

* * *

 

            Stiles was on Dean before he had a chance to react, not expecting the strength as the young man shoved him up against the wall behind the couch.

            “Where is he?!” Stiles shouted in Dean’s face, gripping the front of the man’s shirt.

            “Whoa, kid, calm down!” Dean tried shoving at Stiles’ shoulders, but Stiles knocked his hand away with a _smack_.

            “What did he do to him? Where did he take him? If anything happens to him, I swear – I swear to God I’ll kill you.” Stiles’ voice broke and Dean could see that he was viciously fighting back the tears welling in his eyes.  

            “Stiles!”

            Stiles whipped around to face his father, who was standing calmly by the doorway. They held eyes for a moment and Dean’s hands came to rest on Stiles’ shoulders, pushing him away gently.

            “Take a breather, Stiles, we’ll figure this out,” he grunted, ignoring the way his heart was still clenched tight from the sight of Castiel’s disappearance. He took a deep breath, and tried to pull himself together. “Sam, any idea what just happened?”

            Hands clenched as Stiles took several steps back, trying to breath past his panic. Words went back and forth, muffled in Stiles’ ears. Derek was gone. Disappeared before his eyes, as if he’d never occupied the space at Stiles’ side. His heart raced, his breath was stolen from his lungs and he was gasping.

            He backed himself up against a wall and slid himself over to the corner, needing to feel the solid pressure closing him in. Before he’d even made it to the floor, familiar hands were on him, trying to pull his own from his face. Curling in on himself, his chest pushed against his thighs on every gasped inhale and his thoughts swirled between all of the horrible things that could’ve happened to Derek, and the fear that maybe he’d never been there at all. 

 

* * *

 

            Castiel touched down gently, though he stayed cloaked in the veil for a moment. His gaze swept over the heaven where he had landed. It was a picnic, the table laid out, the grill burning with hamburgers that would never cook over medium. Overhead, puffy white clouds drifted in a sunny blue sky and Castiel knew there would be no bugs at all here. It was perfect, and it was _empty_. The couple that should have been here were nowhere in sight, as it had been for the last two soul-mate heavens he had visited.

            Cursing, he folded his wings behind him and allowed himself to be seen. Something was _wrong_ here, though he couldn't put his finger on it. There should have been two women here, bound together by the cupid marks on their hearts, inseparable. Instead, there was no one, and Castiel could feel from the soul-traces that there had been no one here since the angels had fallen. It was as though they had been snatched, the same as the others.

            Though he poked around the table and the grill, walked the perimeter of the heaven, there was no sign that the heaven had ever been anything but empty. He had only happened upon three other soul-mate heavens in his wandering time, between battles. Seraphs did not spend much time in the heavens of humankind. If only he could speak to Joseph, beg the locations of others. Instead, he raised his wings and shot off in the direction of the next heaven.

            The next two were, as the first three, empty. A vacant house with a puppy sleeping on the couch and a stretch of lake with a cabin, both without any sign that anyone had been there in months. Castiel wrecked things in the latter, tearing his frustration out inside the house. It repaired itself as soon as the damage was done, and he disappeared into the veil.

            There was one soul-mate heaven left, the only one he still knew. He didn't want to go to it, loathed with everything he was the idea of finding it empty. There would be no way to explain that to Dean, no way he could carry that knowledge without baring it to the Winchester brothers. He would rather scour the entirety of heaven to find any other soul-mate heaven than to arrive at Mary and John's and find it devoid of their souls.

            He also knew that he didn't have that sort of time and even if he did, he knew that Dean would find a way to murder him if he didn't check upon his parents. So when he spread his wings and took flight, it was in the last direction he wanted to go, with the knowledge that whatever he found there was not going to be what he wanted.

 

* * *

 

            Derek sat quietly beside Ash as the guy explained to him about the complex machinery in front of them. He watched Ash's finger trace blue dots that were souls and point out the two red dots that were Metatron and Castiel respectively. He asked how Ash figured it out and got it working, but as he expected Ash's explanation flew over his head and Derek couldn't even determine how string was involved, much less why there were theories about it that allowed Ash to track energy signatures and read minds. He did ask one question, though, that earned him enough respect that his ignorance didn't seem to matter.

            "If you can track Castiel, can't that other guy? The bad angel?"

            Ash gave him a look and then turned to Bobby, who shrugged like _you got me, son_. Ellen wore a similar expression when Ash switched to her, and then he turned his attention back to Derek. "That's a good question, amigo," he said. "He probably can, and that's a bad thing."

            "Aren't we supposed to be providing a distraction?" Derek suggested. He'd been watching the screen for at least ten minutes now. At least the red dots were keeping their distances from one another and from the Roadhouse.

            "Haven't had to," Ash said. "That Metatron guy hasn't moved yet. Castiel has been popping around, but- oh."

            "Oh?" Bobby asked like a warning, because he'd heard that tone before.

            Ash's fingers began to fly over the weird, alien keyboard. Jo popped up at Derek's elbow and looked over his shoulder. "Metatron's on the move toward Cas," she supplied.

            "What are you doing?" Derek asked, sitting up straighter as he watched the two dots come closer to one another.

            "Setting decoys," Jo said as another red dot cropped up on the screen. "He's putting energy signals out on the radio that don't exist. Metatron will have to go to their location to tell whether they're real or not, and by then they'll be gone. We used to use it to disguise this place; you know, put an angel sig in the Roadhouse and no one comes to check on us because it looks like someone else already is."

            "Won't he just go for the original? For Castiel?" Derek asked, looking amongst all of them. Ash chuckled and Ellen twitched her head in a way that said _c'mon over here_. Derek reluctantly abandoned his post, allowing Jo into the space, and joined Ellen at the bar.

            "Why don't you let Ash take care of the angels for now. It's Derek, right?" she asked, holding up a cold beer and tipping the neck toward him in a clear offer. He nodded in thanks and she cracked the cap off on the edge of the bar before handing it to him. "You said you met the boys?"

            "Yes," Derek agreed, then took a short sip. It was good beer. "He uh- Dean tried to kill me."

            "That doesn't seem like Dean," Ellen told him, tipping her head a little and giving him an appraising look. "That boy don't kill humans."

            "No," Derek agreed again, dropping his gaze to where his hands wrapped around the bottle. "So I gathered."

            She stared at him for a long moment, hip against the bar, parsing his cryptic answer. It was with no manner of malice that she asked: "So what are you?"

            Derek swallowed, but he knew he wasn't getting out of answering this one. He also could tell, by the lean of Jo's body and the cant of Bobby's head that both of them were listening raptly. He sighed. "Werewolf. But not the Romanian kind," he added quickly, in case any of them knew what the hell Stiles had been talking about.

            "French?" Bobby asked from behind him.

            "Yeah, actually," Derek said, surprised. Was he the only one who hadn't known what he was? "I uh... I don't need to kill humans."

            "Why'd Castiel bring you up here?" Bobby continued, coming up beside him at the bar. He sounded gruff but not angry, and Derek relaxed a little.

            "I don't know," Derek told him, turning enough to face him. "I don't think he meant to." They were all, save Ash, giving him a look that begged explanation and so he told them. He told them about Stiles and the Graces and about the souls, as much of it as he could manage, and when he fell silent they all just stared. Finally Ellen gave a long, low whistle.

            "Well, thank you, Derek," she said at last, and that surprised him possibly more than anything else today. A hunter thanking a werewolf... "It sounds like you saved Castiel and our boys while you were at it."

            Derek shifted, uncomfortable with the gratitude. He'd done it to save Stiles. Instead of answering, he tipped his head toward the screen, where Ash had a dozen red dots flitting around. "So, can that thing find specific souls? Like, if you wanted to search for someone?"

            Jo made an excited noise behind him and hopped off her stool. "Yeah! How do you think Ash found us? He dropped by and collected us all. Do you want to see?"

            "Isn't he... sort of busy?" Derek asked, skeptical of the wisdom of interrupting Ash while he worked.

            Looking back, Jo watched the dots for a split second before smiling. "Yeah," she told Derek. "But he made me my own. You got someone you want to look for while you're here?"

            "Too many people," Derek admitted quietly. "My family was... I lost them to a house fire. Maybe they're here."

            Ellen gave him a sympathetic smile, mirrored by Jo, who touched his arm in comfort. Bobby looked distinctly uncomfortable, most likely at the prospect of there being other werewolves in heaven, but to his credit he didn't say anything. Jo disappeared into the back and Derek took another pull of his beer.

            A few moments later, Jo returned from the back room and slammed down a silvery briefcase of some sort. When she cracked it open, it looked the same as Ash's device, with slightly different colors. "This is my baby," she declared proudly. It flickered to life in her hands. "We might only have time to check on one, so who is it you’re dying to look for?"

            Derek swallowed as another thought occurred to him. "Actually, could you look for someone that... isn't my family?"

            Jo shrugged, lips turning down in a gesture that said _sure_. "Don't see why not. Who did you have in mind?"

            "Stiles' mother," he said quietly. "She died when he was young. It would be nice to tell him she's okay."

            He thought Jo's look softened considerably at the request. He gave to her as much information as he could give, watching as her fingers flew over the keys. The dots on the screen shifted and moved, as if traveling over a map as she worked. He didn't ask questions of her as he'd asked of Ash. He just sat back, let her work, and waited.

 

* * *

 

            Sam glanced down at the kid as he walked back into the living room, arms full of the supplies they needed. The Sheriff still crouched in front of him, holding eye contact as his son breathed into the paper bag John had shouted for Dean to fetch from the bathroom down the hall. Stiles’ breathing had slowed to a manageable pace, still too heavy, but not horribly so.

            The kid’s eyes followed Sam as he dumped a map, two-foot-tall tripod, a tawny covert feather, and a small, thick book on the coffee table. Glancing to his brother, Sam answered the raised eyebrows with a nod, dropping to his knees before the supplies and immediately flipping open the book.

            “What’re you doing?” Stiles asked weakly, gulping past the lump in his throat.

            Dean glanced over to him, took in the more relaxed set of his shoulders, the color that had started to return to his cheeks. “Scrying. You good?”

            Nodding, Stiles pushed himself up off the wall. He let his father clap a hand to his shoulder and nodded to him, knowing they would talk about this later, before making his way over to the brothers. It had been nearly six years since they’d been through a panic attack together, and he knew it brought back horrible memories for his dad, memories of learning to live without her.

            “Scrying?” Stiles clarified, noting the technique looked like the one Deaton had used to find Scott when the nymphs passed through town. “Won’t that only work if they’re on this plane?”

            Dean shot him a surprised glance, then nodded. “We just wanna check. We’re pretty sure they got jumped up to heaven. Like Cas said, if anything had gone wrong, we’d have known it.”

            “Big boom. Right.” Stiles nodded. He glanced over the materials again, eyes catching on the symbol at the top corner of the page Sam was intently reading. “Don’t you need something of Derek’s?” He met another of Dean’s glances. “To find him?”

            Dean crossed his arms and turned to face Stiles. “I take it you’ve done this before?”

            Nodding, Stiles reached down to pick up the tripod, pulling the anchor point to himself to examine it. He traced the symbol with his eyes before meeting Dean’s. “Unicursal hexagram. Just like the one Deaton’s got.”

            At that, Sam looked up sharply. Cutting off Dean’s confused “Uni- what?” he inquired, “Wait, you know this symbol?” He raised the book up to Stiles, indicating the top corner.

            Stiles nodded again, meeting Sam’s gaze. “Our local vet, well, he’s mostly a vet. Other times I’m not really sure what he is other than cryptic and begrudgingly helpful. Anyway, he’s got this symbol on a bunch of his stuff.”

            “You said Deaton? Like, maybe related to Claudia Deaton?” Sam pressed.

            “No, I don’t know, he’s not really open about his fam-”

            “Well, this is fascinating, really, but can we maybe get back to the point, Sam?” Dean cut in, glancing between the two of them with frustrated eyes.

            “Dean, if there are other Men of Letters, ones that survived, we have to-” Sam started.

            “Later, Sammy! If Cas is on this planet, I want to know ten minutes ago.” Dean’s voice was strained, betraying the calm he’d maintained since Castiel and Derek had vanished.

            “Please,” Stiles agreed, looking at Sam desperately. His dad had talked him through his panic, but Derek’s absence still hung like a weight around his heart that - try as he might - he couldn’t ignore.

            Sam nodded at them and sunk back on his heels, pulling the tripod from Stiles’ hands unceremoniously and setting everything up.

            Dean turned to Stiles. “You got something of his? Something we can use?”

            Stiles nodded, already turning toward the living room door. “Yeah, in my room, gimme a minute.”

            “It has to be something that belongs to him,” Dean emphasized, holding up a hand, making sure he was listening. “Can’t be something he’s given to you.”

            “Yeah, I know,” Stiles replied, hand automatically thumbing over the wolf bracelet he wore. John caught his eye as he left the room, searching his gaze for something. Whatever it was, he seemed to find it and gave a short nod to Stiles, which he returned, biting at the inside of his cheek.

            The brothers pretended not to notice this interaction. Dean walked over to the Sheriff when Stiles had passed. “Sheriff, it’s-”

            “John,” the older man interjected. “Call me John.”

            “Well, John, you got quite a kid there. Definitely pulled off single parenting better than my old man,” Dean commented.

            John jerked his eyebrows up in a doubtful gesture. “Practically raised himself, after. . .” He sighed. “Lot more of him taking care of me than me taking care of him, that’s for sure.”

            Dean seemed to take that for what it was, moving out of the way when Stiles came back into the room. . . carrying a thick, leather belt.

            Stiles threw a hand out toward his father and his raised eyebrows. “Not a word,” he warned, not meeting his father’s eye.

            John shrugged and gave an unbothered expression. “To be honest, I’m just glad it wasn’t a condom.”

            Snickering, Dean watched the blush spread up the back of Stiles’ neck, reddening his ears hilariously, as he walked over to hand the belt to Sam.

            The younger brother grabbed the belt with a muttered _thanks_ , and folded it in half several times, wrapping the string around it. It was attached on the other end to the crystal and he fastened the belt to the anchor point of the tripod. The crystal rested on the coffee table, which was now covered in a large world map.

            “Ready?”

            Sam nodded to his brother, sitting back on his heels again as he pulled the book close, and began reading a chant. As soon as he spoke, the string twitched, dragging the crystal along the hard surface. Within half a minute, the string had begun spinning, carrying the crystal in a wide circle over the map. Stiles remembered this part, remembered how the crystal settled as Deaton finished the incantation.

            The words flowed clear and smooth from Sam’s mouth, indicating magic was nothing new to him. He stopped abruptly, a note of finality ringing in the last word.

            The crystal still spun.

            “So, does that mean it worked? That means it worked, right? They made it to heaven?” Stiles was looking between the brothers intently, taking in their resigned expressions. “Is this not a good thing? Why do you both have this look on your face like this is not a good thing?”

            “Check Cas,” Dean told Sam, clenching his jaw and not meeting anyone’s eyes. Sam immediately reached for the tripod to unfasten the belt, grabbing the feather that laid at his feet.

            “Hello? Someone want to explain why you look so pissed off right now?” Stiles stepped into Dean’s path as he moved toward the living room entrance, stopping him with raised eyebrows.

            “Yes, kid, it worked. Cas and your boyfriend are up there, doing what needs to be done, while we sit down here doing absolutely freaking nothing,” Dean spat the last part as Sam started up the chanting again.

            Stiles fell back on his heels, understanding. “You would’ve rather they got dropped somewhere, so you could just go drive and pick them up?” he guessed.

            “Hell of a lot better than having to wait around, completely useless, while they’re up there finding all the trouble they can.” Sighing heavily, Dean fell back on the couch, watching the crystal with tense eyes.

            “Yeah, that sounds like Derek,” Stiles conceded, leaning back against the doorway, vaguely aware of his father slipping out of the room.

            John came back just as Sam finished chanting for the second time, and for the second time the crystal didn’t stop. He passed out beers to both Sam and Dean, which they took gratefully, and handed a can of Coke to Stiles. The younger man took it with an unamused huff and the sound of popping caps filled the room.

 

* * *

 

            Castiel's heart dropped when he caught sight of John, sitting on the front porch of the Lawrence, Kansas residence. John didn't seem surprised to see him; he had visited once before, to check on the couple. To check on Mary, mostly, considering how badly damaged his boys had become under John's care. "John," he greeted. "I wish you weren't here."

            "Yeah, the feeling's mutual," John said, sounding tired as he clambered to his feet and banged a couple times on the door. "Mary?"

            It was only a moment before Mary appeared. She froze in the doorway, taking in Castiel and then John, her gaze settling back on the angel. Her expression softened, and she gestured him closer to her. "If you're here with that face, it's nothing good. Come in, Castiel, and let me get you a shirt."

            Ducking his head a little in shame, Castiel strode to the house behind John. Mary grabbed his sleeve as he passed and pulled him into a quick, awkward hug. The roiling feeling of guilt extinguished the warm flutter in his gut at the action. He wished he didn't have to be here. He wished he could have found anyone else in time.

           

* * *

 

            "She's there," Jo said softly, pointing to a shimmering blueish-purple dot on her screen. Derek leaned over and looked, not really sure what he expected. The dot didn't resolve into Stiles' mom's visage or anything, it just sat there, like any of the other hundreds of blue dots Jo had shuffled through.

            "How do you know?" he asked, catching her gaze with a sidelong glance.

            She smiled and gave a little shrug. "It's complicated. But she's there. I'm... I'm not really sure what that color means though."

            "Maybe it's a combination," Derek guessed. "The human souls are blue and the angels are red, right? That angel told us she was nephilim. It's her Grace he's riding around up here." 

            "Oh," Jo said quietly. She shifted, not really sure what to do with that information. Laying a hand on Derek's knee, she smiled. "Look, we probably don't have time to go see her right now, but if Cas fixes this, I'll make sure Ash takes me to see her. Maybe she'd like to come hang out til... you know."

            Derek nodded, though the thought of the sheriff and Stiles being able to join her sat anything but gently in his gut. "Yeah. Thanks."

            "Hey!" Ash called, straightening in his seat. The red vanished from his screen except for two bright dots, one of which was streaking straight for the Roadhouse. "Battlestations, we got incoming!"

            Though he hopped to his feet, Derek wasn't really sure what he was going to do. There was an angel bearing down upon them and it seemed as if Ash thought it wasn't the nice one. He let his claws slide out, and his fangs lengthen in his mouth. It may not be much, against the force of an angel, but he damn well wasn't going down without a fight.

            A rush of wing beats filled the air and then Castiel was amongst them, flanked by a man and woman. The Roadhouse crew seemed to recognize them, judging by the warm but confused greetings.

            "Hate to rush this," Ash announced before anyone could start asking questions. "But we're gonna have a pretty PO'd angel heading our way soon, so do we got a plan?"

            "Yes," Castiel assured him, turning to John and Mary. "When we are finished, these people will find you to return you to your heaven, do you understand?" When they nodded, he turned to the others. "I need these tables cleared, and brought to the center. Ellen-"

            She tossed a writing utensil of some sort at him, which he caught with a sort of grace and fluidity that surprised Derek. He nodded his thanks and in moments there were tables cleared around him. Gently, he placed a small, bronze amulet at the center of one and began to draw sigils on the wood of the table. When he was finished, he moved to the next table and began to draw different symbols.

            "What's he doing?" Derek asked Jo, under his breath so as to not interrupt the angel.

            "Casting," she told him absently, eyes tracing every move. Derek could see Ash and Ellen and Bobby all following every move Castiel made, and he wondered if all of the hunters would be able to replicate the spell later, should they need to. It was a little terrifying. She glanced quickly over and smiled in an attempt to reassure him. "Those are Enochian sigils; well, most of them. Basically, angel magic."

            "It's all backwards," Ash commented, brow scrunched.

            "It is a reversal spell," Castiel informed them, the chalky utensil in his long fingers swooping over the curve of a symbol. "Metatron used a very old, very powerful spell to separate the other angels from their Graces and expel them from this place. This should reverse that; it should draw all of the Graces out from where he has hidden them and pull the angels back to them."

            “All of the Graces – does that include Metatron’s?” Derek asked, eyeing Castiel shrewdly. Castiel met his eye with a small twitch of expression that was almost a smile before returning to work.

            He finished the last of the sigils, set up now on three tables, and took Mary and John by the wrists, moving them toward the second table. He didn't have to tell them to stay put before he turned back to where the amulet rested. Looking up, he gave everyone around him a steady gaze. "If this works," he began, settling on Derek. "I will not be able to return the Grace I took from Stiles. It will be used up to power the spell, as mine was."

            "That’s not what you said," Derek growled.

            "I apologize, but it was prudent to obtain the materials I needed as quickly as possible. He will be safer without it."

            "Well, it's sort of late to change anything now," Derek snapped. "Just do it before that other guy gets here?"

            Nodding, Castiel lay his hands on the table over two of the sigils and began to speak in a language Derek had never heard. The words were short and clipped, but the language was beautiful all the same. The sigil on the table began to glow, the amulet lighting up bright red with heat. After a moment, the color burst from it and the amulet dissolved into a curl-whip of light. Castiel plucked it from where it lay on the table and turned to Mary and John.

            Mary smiled, and glanced to John. "I'll find you," she said quietly. "No matter what."

            He nodded, leaned over for a kiss, and then looked to Castiel. "Do it, then."

            With a small, quick snap Castiel separated the wriggly line of light in his hands. He pressed the two new pieces into the chests of the Winchesters, who stood firm. For a moment nothing happened, and then Castiel repeated the words he had spoken over the amulet.

            Derek moved forward when Mary cried out, crumpling into herself and clutching at her chest as a blue glow began to emanate from within. Jo's hand on his shoulder stopped him and he froze, watching as John's face wrinkled some as well, his hand seeking his wife's. Like the amulet, they both began to glow until they were bright, until the light shattered and they were gone. In their stead was a pale ball of blue light.

            Castiel looked crushed as he reached out. The blue glow reacted to his movement, paling to almost white, and then it coiled around his hand like a beloved pet greeting its master. Castiel stroked a hand over it and it arched into the touch. "I'm sorry," he murmured, a moment before he plunged his fingers into the glow.

            It writhed, silent in its agony, and then fell still as Castiel withdrew what appeared to be two small, grey sigils from within. The glow separated into equal parts as he did so, and if anything Castiel looked even more distressed. The pair of glowing orbs winked out of view.

            "What on Earth...?" Bobby asked, mystified. "Those were souls."

            Moving to the final table, Castiel answered: "Yes. I used the power of Dean's amulet to sever the soul bond the cherubs placed on John and Mary. The first spell required a cupid's bow; this one requires their mark. I had to return them to their natural state in order to remove the marks."

            "So what the hell happens to them!" Bobby demanded, getting angrily to his feet.

            Castiel didn't even look at the man as he set the marks upon the final set of sigils. These he had drawn in blood; angel blood. "Separate heavens have been generated for them. They are fine. If we succeed, you can seek them out to bring them together."

            "And if we don't?" Ellen asked. "Succeed?"

            "Then," Castiel told her, drawing the short, triple-edged dagger from his sleeve. "It won't really matter. We'll probably all be dead. Metatron is heading this way now."

            Everyone turned to look at Ash's screen and sure enough, the only other red dot visible was heading directly for them.

            Castiel took a deep breath and looked over to where Bobby sat. "Come here. Do you remember the words?" When Bobby nodded, Castiel continued. "I may not be able to speak. In this case, you will need to say them, and set your palm on this sigil." He indicated the bloody sigil on the final table.

            "That's the angel banishing symbol," Bobby noted, cautious.

            "A mirror image," Castiel assured him. "It will... call the Graces here. Directly here, so I might suggest the rest of you cover your eyes."

            "Comforting," Bobby groused, but he prepared himself anyway, standing next to Castiel.

            “Once the last of the Graces arrive here,” Castiel began. “The angels will begin to rise. As they enter heaven, their Graces will cleave back to them.”

            “So once Metatron enters this heaven-“ Derek guessed.

            “He will complete the spell,” Castiel finished, that same almost-smile on his lips.

            And then Castiel was drawing his blade across his own throat and everyone in the room gasped. White light poured from his throat and into his palm, blood seeping out along the line of his neck and soaking into the collar of his shirt. He lay the brilliant white light onto the marks where he had placed them in the center of the sigil, and he stepped aside to allow Bobby access. He pressed his own hand to his throat with a wince of pain. It wasn't stopping the bleeding.

            Bobby took a deep breath, and the Roadhouse began to tremble. Everyone else looked up, and Derek guessed that the rumble was probably the bad angel. "Just do it!" he snarled, and that seemed to snap everyone out of it. Bobby began to chant, quicker than Castiel had.

            The moment the last word was past his lips, he slammed his hand into the center of the summoning sigil, and the world went white.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Hungry Like the Wolf_ sounded in the silent living room, causing them all to jump. Stiles hurled himself across the room at his phone, tripping and nearly smacking his face on the coffee table. After righting himself, he pulled the phone from the table beside the couch and thumbed the screen frantically.

            “Derek? Is that you? Derek, are you okay?” he nearly shouted.

            “ _Yes, it’s me, and we’re fine_ ,” Derek’s voice said through the receiver. “ _But_ -”

            “Oh thank God! I am gonna kick your _ass_ , do you know how worried-” Stiles stopped to bat at Dean’s hand as he reached for the phone.

            “Is Cas there?” Dean asked gruffly, leaning around as Stiles turned away from him. “Let me talk to him.”

            “Shh!” Stiles whispered harshly, pulling the phone to his other ear, and cutting off Derek’s muffled “ _Yes, he’s right here_ ” with “Derek, what happened? Did it work? Did you get hurt?”

            “ _A lot. Yes, we think so. And no_ ,” the werewolf answered exasperatedly, having learned a long time ago how to handle Stiles like this. “ _But we need-_ ”

            “Hand me the damn phone, kid, I need to talk to Cas.” Dean was trying to catch Stiles as he dodged, flitting around the room, somehow managing to remain upright.

            “ _Tell Dean that I am alright, but we need-_ ” Castiel’s calm voice came through, quieter than Derek’s.

            “ _I’m trying!_ ” Derek gritted out, inhaling sharply. “ _Stiles, stop running around and put us on-_ ”

            “Wait,” Stiles cut in. “What do you mean you think it worked? You’re not sure?” Stiles was still leaping over furniture as Dean chased him. Castiel’s voice came through the receiver again as they ran around, saying “ _Metatron seems to be resisting the spell._ ”         Sam and John stood by the doorway, watching with amused expressions as Stiles crashed over the recliner, Dean tumbling down after him and knocking over one of the side tables with a loud crash.

            “ _Dammit Stiles! Put us on speaker!_ ” Derek shouted into the phone.

            “That’s - that’s a good idea,” Stiles muttered as he fumbled with the screen of his phone, pulling himself out from under Dean as the older man glared at him and sat up.

            “Okay, you’re on speaker,” Stiles huffed, standing and holding the phone out as the others crowded around him.

            They heard Derek take a deep breath, but before he could speak they heard Castiel's urgent voice say “ _Do not forget to tell them-_ ” 

            “ _I know!_ ” Derek snapped at the angel, a sharp sigh spiking static into the phone. Wherever they were, they had terrible reception. “ _Okay, so starting over. Castiel and I are fine. He did the spell and we think he finished it in time. We’re not sure_ ,” Derek explained, his voice rising as if sensing that Stiles was about to cut in, “ _because nothing has happened yet. But Castiel thinks Metatron is running from the spell and that it will catch up eventually,_ ” he added, sighing again.

            “So is Cas-?” Dean started to ask.

            “ _Human, as far as we can tell. It’s hard to explain over the phone-_ ” Derek told them.

            Stiles adjusted his weight. “Hang on, so where are you?”

            “ _Some town called Angwin-_ ”

            “ _I tried to aim us back to Beacon Hills, but it seems I missed the mark-_ ”

            Derek ignored him, continuing. " _It's in_ _California_ _, somewhere by_ _San Francisco_ _. We're at the Angwin General Store. Come get us._ " Stiles heard the unspoken _hurry_ in Derek's voice.

 

* * *

 

            The vehicles pulled into the parking lot and headed straight to where Derek and Castiel stood by the side wall. Both Stiles and Dean were out and running to them before their car doors had even closed. Derek moved toward Stiles, who wrapped his arms around the alpha as tight as he could while Derek clutched at his jawline to bring their faces together, kissing each other with all they had. Stiles' hands dropped to wrap long fingers around Derek’s waist, gripping until his knuckles turned white.

 

            Castiel was caught off guard when Dean grabbed for his neck and pulled him close, pressing their lips together for the first time. The hunter’s other arm wrapped around Castiel’s back, drawing him in. He stood there, frozen for barely a moment before melting into Dean, hands gripping Dean’s biceps, some distant instinct urging him along as he unlocked his jaw and licked his way into Dean’s mouth.

 

* * *

 

            The light show started as they were on their way back to Beacon Hills, Stiles following the Impala in his Jeep, fingers interlinked with Derek’s over the console. He hadn’t let go of Derek since they’d reunited and still didn't as he followed the impala off the road. They all exited, Stiles following Derek out the passenger side door.

            Stiles remembered the way it was before, the burning balls of light hurtling to the ground. It wasn't quite the same this time, the light a pure white rather than a burning yellow, and the ascent was slower than the descent.

            Dean leaned back on the hood of the Impala, up against the glass, pulling Cas into his lap and wrapping his arms beneath the other man’s. Castiel rested his head on Dean’s shoulder, one hand gripping Dean’s and the other hooked around Dean’s neck.

            Glancing over to his right, Dean saw Stiles and Derek arranged in a similar fashion atop the hood of the Jeep, Stiles wrapped around Derek as if he never wanted to let go. Derek, judging by the way he looked over his shoulder at Stiles rather than watching the sky, felt the same way.

            “So, Dean,” Stiles started, rolling his head to look over to the hunter. “What’s there left to do after saving the world?”

            “Save it again,” Dean intoned simply.

            Stiles’ eyebrows shot up. “How many times have you done this?”

            Dean sighed, taking another swig of his beer as Castiel replied. “That depends. Are we counting the times in which we endangered it in the first place?”

            Stiles snorted, pulling his own beer to his lips. Derek watched him fondly, with a hint of something headier as his eyes focused on the way Stiles’ lips wrapped around the bottle. Stiles’ face heated up at the attention, so he stuck out his tongue at Derek in an attempt to kill the mood, but Derek just caught the extrusion between his teeth and pulled their mouths together.

            Castiel was humming contentedly between Dean’s thighs, as Dean’s fingers trailed softly up and down Cas’ side.

            Around them, the angels rose to heaven.

 


End file.
